Waiting for the Violins (2 page)

The ship turned laboriously in the waves and headed out to sea.

“We’ve made it.” Antonia leaned over her patient. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re on our way home.”

“Thank God for—”

The explosion stunned her for a moment. Then, through the smoke, she saw the hole in the stern deck. Heavy bombers had arrived, backing up the Stuka fighters.

“It’s okay. The explosion was above the waterline. We’re still sailing.” She squeezed his hand, though her own trembled.

The second bomb crashed perpendicular through the deck deafening her with the sound of ripping steel. A third bomb struck; she felt the ship shudder with it. Within minutes, the stern was under water. All was chaos, smoke, coughing, screaming, and a hellish pain in her neck. The clothing on her back was on fire and so was her hair.

Something crashed against her and sent her toppling over the side. The frigid water momentarily stopped the scorching pain but she struggled to stay afloat. She still held her patient’s sleeve, and he slid off the stretcher into the water next to her. Paralyzed from the waist down, he flailed with his arms, imploring her with his eyes to save him. He clutched at her as water covered his face and pulled her under with him. She thrashed, trying to regain the surface, but her own chest hurt with every movement, and the drowning soldier pulled her ever deeper.

Desperate and choking, she pried off his rigid fingers, and as he fell away from her, she kicked with all her force. But even without him, the weight of her shoes and sodden clothing was too great, and she sank, her lungs screaming for air. Reflexively, she gulped salty water, and her last faint sensation before she blacked out was of something yanking hard on her hair.

Chapter Two

June 1940

Sandrine Toussaint stood at the window of the Château Malou gazing out over the verdant grounds. How unjust that the estate was still so lovely when she herself, and all of Belgium, had suffered catastrophe. The surrender of the king a month before after an eighteen-day struggle against the Germans was devastating, but she grieved more for her own loss. She turned away from the window and took up the photo of her brother Laurent, killed by one of Rommel’s troops. Rommel, the only military name she knew other than Hitler, and she hated him.

She’d spent all the tears she had for Laurent, and life had gone on. But today she’d come across his violin among the long-neglected items in his wardrobe, and the pain of his absence had swelled up once again.

He was dashingly handsome in his uniform, and she was struck again by the extraordinary resemblance between them. Both were Nordic pale, with prominent strong chins, long straight noses, and intense eyes, though his were blue and hers green. They had passed as twins in spite of his being two years younger. Only their temperaments were different, he being the quiet musician and she the truculent tomboy.

The door from the entry hall opened, and Gaston, her gardener, carpenter, and house repairman, thrust his head through the opening. “Madam, they’ve arrived, as you expected.”

She nodded and prepared for the charade she and her household had prepared. The Germans had occupied Château Malou once before, during the Great War, so it was inevitable they would lay claim to it again. But this time, it wouldn’t be so easy.

The disappointment on the face of the officer when he came into the entry hall and glanced around amused her. “Could use a little maintenance,” he said, pointing his baton at the cracked ceiling. “Does it leak?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” she replied, glancing down at the puddle at her feet. Then she led him into the main room. Another man, of some lower rank, followed him in.

“How long have those been broken?” He pointed with his chin at the half-dozen cracked or missing glass panes. The rain-chilled air wafted through the openings.

“Since before the fighting. Political vandals, we think.”

He nodded. “Communists. They don’t much like mansions.”

“A shame.” She sighed. “The glass has to be specially cut, so it will take weeks to replace.”

He wrinkled his nose. “What is that odor?”

“It’s probably the mold. From the cracks between the walls and the ceiling. Or do you mean the plumbing problem?”

The officer looked alarmed. “You have a plumbing problem?”

“Unfortunately. The pipes are a hundred years old and they’ve just burst. We’ve had to turn off the system and bring water from the fountain outside. It’s very inconvenient for the toilets.”

The officer scribbled something in a notebook, and she knew her case was made.

The rest of the tour of the decrepit château would hardly be necessary: the smoke-filled kitchen downstairs from the coal-burning stove, the rotten and stinking carpet in the upstairs corridor, and the pools of water on the floors of several of the upstairs rooms would simply cement the conclusion he had already drawn. The château was a wreck and not worth requisitioning.

“The Belgian aristocracy has come down in the world,” the officer remarked upon leaving.

The ruse would have amused her if she hadn’t been so embittered. As soon as it was clear the house didn’t interest the occupiers, they would turn the plumbing and the water boiler back on and get rid of the stinking carpet. She even knew a glazier who could replace the windowpanes. But she couldn’t undo her leaden sense of defeat and violation.

She had to do something. She had no idea what, but surely someone would resist, somewhere. She would join them, and she would take revenge.

“For you, Laurent,” she said, placing the violin next to his picture on the mantelpiece. “And for my conscience.”

Chapter Three

Orpington Hospital

August 1940

Antonia lay stupefied by morphine, cordoned off from the all-male population of the hut. How long had she been in hospital? A few weeks, a month? She’d lost count.

Her shoulder was in a cast, and the unremitting ache with every breath told her she had broken ribs. The doctors had informed her that a severe concussion had caused her headaches and distorted vision. The worst had been the second- and third-degree burns on her back and neck, and she had lain in purgatory for weeks before the pain subsided.

Memory of the attack lingered dully, but she was safe now, and the moans of the more seriously wounded soldiers on the other side of the partition kept her from self-pity. The long, green-painted ward held some forty wounded soldiers, and a dozen other huts spread out over the grounds held hundreds more. Cripples, amputees, respiratory cases, shell-shocked soldiers—all comrades from those terrible days in France and Belgium.

She’d asked where the other women were, her nursing comrades from Dunkirk, and got no answer, but her solitude in the Orpington ward made it clear no other women had survived the destruction of the
Paris
.

She glanced up as the curtains at the foot of her bed parted and a gray-uniformed nurse swept in with quiet efficiency. Three stripes on her sleeve, an assistant matron. Her white muslin cap with MPNS embroidered on it was tilted carelessly over short gray hair.

“How are we feeling this morning?” She came to the side of the bed.

“About the same.” Antonia twisted sideways, and the nurse lifted her nightgown away from the back of her neck. The cool air of the room felt good on the sensitive skin.

“It’s looking better.” We should be ready to release you to a rehab facility soon. Can you walk without help?”

“Yes, but I’m a bit wobbly.”

“Well, come along then. A gentleman’s here to see you, and he’s requested the privacy of the Sisters’ Room. Here, I’ll help you put on your dressing gown.”

“Gentleman?” Antonia slid her arm into the sleeve, puzzled. She didn’t have any gentlemen in her life. Not since the death of her father a year before. Her superiors in the
Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service
were all women. “Did he say what it was about?”

“No, only that it was confidential.” She took Antonia’s right arm and guided her past the curtain and into the small room at the end of the hospital hut. A military officer stood by the window smoking a cigarette, as if deep in thought. He turned around at the sound of their entrance.

“Thank you very much, Sister,” he said. The nurse left, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Please, sit down, for heaven’s sake.” He motioned toward the chair in front of the desk and took up position behind it.

“Forgive me, I’m Major Atkins,” he said, reaching across the desk to offer his hand. She took it, though extending her arm hurt both her ribs and the new skin on her back. She waited for him to explain the cause of his visit.

He studied her for a moment, holding his cigarette delicately between his index and middle fingers, then tapped it once over the glass ashtray. “The doctors inform me you’re healing very well and that after a few months of rehabilitation, you’ll be able to resume normal activity. May I ask what your plans are?”

“My plans? I don’t know. I don’t think it’ll be nursing. I hate the helplessness.”

“Do you?” His tone seemed to hold a certain satisfaction.

“Umm. Eventually, I thought I might apply for the Wrens, or even the Women’s Air Force.”

“You’re ready to go back to the front? In spite of all that?” He gestured with his chin toward her shoulder cast.

The memory of the scorching flames struck her briefly, as did the image of a soldier, paralyzed and drowning. “Yes. I’d go tomorrow if it didn’t still hurt to move.”

He opened the file that lay on the desk, which she hadn’t noticed. Her photo was clipped to the upper corner. “I see you lived for a few years in Brussels.”

“Yes. My parents moved there when I was four. My father was a chemist involved in the Solvay Institute, which met in Brussels. We returned to England when the Germans occupied the city.”

“Yes, in 1914, when you were eight. Your record also indicates that you spent two years studying in Paris, starting in 1924. Your French should be pretty good, then.”

“I like to think so. One of the advantages of learning a language at a young age.”

“What about German and Dutch?” He took up his cigarette again and puffed between questions.

“A little of both, but nothing useful. Why are you asking?”

He blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Are you afraid of guns, or flying, or…say…parachuting in the dark?”

“No to all of those. Why do you want to know?”

“The prime minister has just approved a new organization that can use your talents and zeal, and you’ll have a much greater effect on the war than you would ministering to the wounded, or even flying auxiliary aircraft. It has the very dull name of Special Operations Executive.”

“That doesn’t tell me much. What does it do?”

“
Will
do. We hope. Espionage, sabotage, reconnaissance, fomenting unrest, resistance. Mr. Churchill wants to send some of our people back to ‘set Europe ablaze.’”

Antonia winced at the word
ablaze
. “And what, specifically, would I do?”

“Whatever you prove to be most skillful at, after your training.” He closed her file. “So, what do you think? Are you interested?” He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the large square of cut glass.

“Oh, I’m definitely interested. But as you can see, I’m handicapped at the moment.”

“You can take as long as you need to recover. A year, two years even. We’ll wait. When you’re ready, we’ll escort you to the training location. Until then, you’ll be sworn to secrecy. You understand that.”

He removed a piece of paper from the middle of the file and slid it toward her. “This specifies what I’ve just told you. Do you want some time to consider our offer?”

She glanced through the agreement while he took a fountain pen from his breast pocket and unscrewed the cap.

“No.” She held out her hand for the pen. “I accept.”

Chapter Four

June 1941

Heinz Büttner patrolled the Rue des Bouchers along with three others in his detachment, though he gradually fell behind. His boots were giving him blisters, and his bladder had begun to act up again.

Why the hell were they patrolling anyhow? The damned Belgians should have been their allies, and some of them, the Rexists and the Flemish nationalists, already knew that. Like the Dutch, they were of good racial stock, and some of the women were real lookers. Almost Aryan, though he wasn’t really sure what that was.

But you never knew when you passed these people on the street. You could look a man right in the eye, and he might be thinking about putting a bullet in your head.

Damn, his feet were killing him. And he had to piss.

“Keep an eye out, will you?” he said to one of his comrades, then stepped into an alleyway and relieved himself with a sigh. His hot urine gave off a sharp odor that mixed with the smells of the trashcans along the wall.

Rebuttoning his trousers, he pivoted back toward the entrance to the alley where his companion stood watch, but he stepped into something slippery-soft. “Ah, shit
.
” The irony of his expletive made him even angrier. At that moment he spied the culprit, a piebald dachshund squatting beside the trashcan, and he kicked it in irritation.

The kick caught the animal just at the hip, causing it to spin around facing him. With a low growl, it bit his ankle. His heavy boots protected him from any harm, but the double insult of attack and a shit-stained boot enraged him. He shook his foot briefly, throwing the cur off, then drew his sidearm and shot it. The bullet pierced the tiny hip and slammed against the plaster wall behind it. Shrieking, the dog retreated on three legs, blood pouring from the wound.

At the sound of the gunshot, one of the doors on the alley opened and girl of about fourteen stared at him, then rushed to the wounded and yelping animal.

“Heinz, you idiot! You can’t go around doing that,” his comrade shouted at him.

“Büttner! What the hell are you doing?” His superior appeared at the entrance of the alley.